


From Here To After

by noelia_g



Series: Fragments [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:46:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Haven to Skyhold, from begining to what is not an end - the Inquisitor and her Commander find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Here To After

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on my Inquisitor, written as vaguely default Evelyn Trevelyan from the Ostwick Circle. Cullen's side of the story. 
> 
> Various headcanons from which this story spins came out of discussions with tumblr user doomedanyway, so this is sort of her brainchild as well.

The Herald is talking to Cassandra.

It's not an uncommon occurrence, she has worked out a routine for every time she comes back to Haven quite quickly. The rounds seem to get longer as she picks up all kinds of people - the latest is a mercenary company led by a Qunari, that's something Cullen did not see coming.

Almost the very moment her company arrives at Haven she is off to walk around, greeting everyone, checking to see if newcomers are settling in well, catching up on the news. There are more and more people in Haven every day, some recruited personally by the Herald, people Cullen would have never expected to support the cause much less join the ranks.

She draws people in, somehow. They have thought it a good idea to have the Herald venture out, the stories were bound to attract interest and capitalising on it seemed like the right course of action; but she still surprised them by succeeding beyond all expectations. She's talking to Cassandra now, and while Cullen is not purposefully eavesdropping, he cannot help but overhear fragments of the conversation from where he observes the soldiers' training routine.

Mere weeks ago Cassandra was out for blood of their prisoner, held in check only by the need to know what really happened at the conclave, and by inherent sense of justice that demanded a fair trial. Now she's sharing a story about... her brother and dragons and mages. In all the months he'd known her, this is the first time he heard anything of her family, and yet the Herald draws it out easily, offering words of comfort and understanding when needed.

She tends to do that. 

Something about her, bright eyes and calm voice, makes people spill out their life stories easily and quickly, trust her to find a solution to all their problems, or just to listen. She does that too, moving swiftly from one person to the next, always with a helping hand and a kind word.

Well, maybe except in his case, but he only has himself to blame, really. 

They've started off well enough; she was understandably wary of them all in the first days after waking up in shackles, he was too busy with demons and exhausted soldiers to pay her much attention, leaving her to Cassandra and Leliana. Then came demons and Roderick’s nagging, one slightly worse than other, settling the Inquisition and its first shaky days, gathering all the resources they could. She was away more often than not, making her way through the Hinterlands and scrounging up all possible support, succeeding where they didn't really expect her to. 

It was only after she came back from Val Royeaux that he messed up royally, in an attempt to make conversation when she wandered by. 

Asking her about the Circle? Maker's breath, what was he thinking. 

He’s never been a great conversationalist and Maker knows he has no talent for diplomacy, but he doesn’t think he’s been this awful for years now. Something about the scrutiny of her bright eyes, something about her calm voice, silk and steel underneath, makes him feel like his armor is ill-fitted, made for someone bigger and stronger than him.

She steps away from Cassandra with a friendly smile and turns to head towards the smithy, but her steps still when she catches his gaze, catches him staring, and he should look away but can’t, recovering himself to nod.

“How’s it faring, Commander?” she asks, making her way over, swiftly maneuvering between the practicing soldiers. He tells her about the new recruits making their way in from over half of Ferelden, in no small part due to the impression she’s been making. She asks about their training, head tilted in consideration, inquires about the supplies. 

He studies her face when she speaks, the certain kind of wariness she still wears around him forgotten when they talk about the day to day work of the Inquisition. She’s becoming better at this, he thinks, or maybe rather dusting off all skills; the Lady Trevelyan must have been raised to manage the bannorn, before she was taken to the Circle.

“Tell me about Templars, Commander,” she says and he blinks, wondering when the conversation flipped around him. There’s no hostility in her tone, however, she actually sounds like she’s making an honest-to-Maker conversation. Small talk, even.

“I can’t speak for what the Order is doing now, Herald,” he says and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the slight quirk of her lips. “Other than that, what do you want to know?”

“When I was in the Circle, we saw Templars every day, yet they never talked to us,” she starts and no, he hasn’t imagined the baiting smile, she’s doing this on purpose. 

He’s been stationed in two circles, known dozens of mages. He’s been at the receiving end of hostility and disdain and barely hidden hatred or carefully composed indifference. Pity, once, years ago, and that still sets off a flare of shame in his chest.

Trevelyan, however, is something else. As much as they’ve all been watching her for weeks, wondering what to make of her, he realises she’s doing the same to him, testing him against some measure he cannot guess at. She leans in when he talks, intent and curious, puff of breath visible in the cold air.

The day they met she almost singed his coat with a blaze aimed at the demon right behind him, followed that with a blast of cold at the one he’s been fighting, freezing it in spot for long enough for Cullen to shatter it to pieces. Talking to her sometimes feels like this, ice in her voice and heat on his cheeks, sudden warm in her gaze when she steps back, allowing him to breathe.

“Thank you, Commander,” she says.

***

“I’ll send a messenger, she’s probably close by,” Josephine offers and Cullen shakes his head.

“No, I’ll get her, I’m pretty sure I know where to look.” 

Cassandra seems like she wants to protest but nods instead, leaning back over the table, glaring down at the maps. Sometime in the past few weeks they’ve become dependant on the Herald’s opinions, maybe too much. Leliana started pointing out they’ll need a proper leader soon if the Inquisition is to last, but they’ll pushing off the decision until the Breach is dealt with, at last.

Cassandra doesn’t say anything but Cullen suspects she supports the idea in her own way. He’s still dissenting but not for the reason they might expect.

He finds the Herald on the other side of the frozen lake, sitting down on the little wooden pier. She stiffens when she hears him approaching but doesn’t look back. After a few long seconds, as he’s debating the merits of reporting back that he couldn’t find her and having Cassandra organise search parties, she shifts to the side wordlessly.

It’s as much of an invitation as he’s ever going to get, he thinks and sits down in the space she made for him.

She leans back, head tilted up, gloveless hands in the snow behind her back to keep her balance as she stares up at the Breach in the sky. He follows her gaze. 

“It’s almost pretty when you don’t think about what it is, isn’t it? And still you can’t look away,” she says and it takes effort not to stare at her. She laughs without looking at him, a short bark of a sound that isn’t happy at all. “It’s been a long day. And I have a feeling that your presence here means it’s not over yet?”

He nods reluctantly. They’ve came back from Redcliffe in the small hours of the morning, mages in tow, and she’s spent half of the day looking into how everyone was settling in while dodging the complaints from every side, her explanations getting shorter with each one, voice weary and clipped, tongue sharpening. He’s probably more guilty than others in throwing harsh words at her feet.

“I wish this was a social call, my lady,” he says and she startles into laughter, much more pleasant than the last. She looks at him now, head tilted and mouth still twitching. He bears her scrutiny as well as he can, forcing himself not to look away.

Snow is falling half-heartedly, snowflakes on her hair and lashes. 

Something stirs in his chest, warm, unfurling. She’s the one sitting in the snow in light jacket and yet he’s the one to shiver. 

“Alright, Commander, what’s the latest?”

“Reports from the Fallow Mire, a squad has been captured.”

She nods, standing up swiftly, shaking off snow. “Always something,” she says and he expects the words to sound bitter but they don’t. She reaches down and offers her hand to pull him up and it’s only then that he realise he’s been frozen on the spot, looking at her. 

Her hand is warm on his, fingers briefly on his wrist. “After you, my lady.”

***

“Let that thing hear you,” he tells her and the words echo in his head, scratch against his throat, for hours.

When he looks back despite knowing better and sees her squaring her shoulders before she pushes the doors open. When Dorian looks back and gives him a nod and she doesn’t. When he pushes his way through the moving crowd to the forefront, where the scrawny kid in the hat is propping up Roderick, listening to something intently even though no one is speaking.

“We can stay, Commander,” Bryony volunteers, gesturing between a few of the soldiers at her side. “We can…”

“No,” he says, harsh and painful. “Keep moving. She will make sure we have time.”

She asked him to get everyone out, that’s on him now. They keep moving, as fast as they can with what they could carry, even though their feet feel like lead.

She asked him, his name on her lips for what he thinks might have been the first time. That thing that took up residence in his chest weeks ago feels too heavy now, its weight almost crushing, hot and terrible.

He’s seen this coming, can’t tell he hasn’t, since the time she came from the bogs, flush with a too-rare victory, lightness in her steps like she didn’t know they’d load her shoulders up with new responsibilities the moment she set foot in Haven. Since that day on the pier, her laughter echoing in his ears, snowflakes on her lashes. Since the time she stared him in the face and asked what was exactly his problem with mages, her voice cold and her eyes burning. Since the first battlefield, maybe.

Maybe he could have stopped himself at any of those times, he’s recognised the symptoms well enough; shaking hands and stuttering voice, a not entirely unpleasant flush taking away his sanity and manners. 

And yet, denying this would have been a disservice, dishonesty. He isn’t… wasn’t going to tell her, flinched at adding to her burdens like that, but the least he owes her is being honest with himself. 

He loves her, sure as breathing, and that’s that.

The earth shakes underneath his feet, everything shakes around them. Someone gasps when the walls of Haven they’ve just left behind crumble, someone else starts muttering the Chant. 

“They’re coming,” someone else yells and they stop, Cullen’s feet stumbling, heart frozen for a bit. He can make out the figures, Cassandra at the forefront, Dorian supporting Varric, or vice versa. 

“We need to keep moving,” Cassandra says flatly, voice ringing out surely, everyone obeying before she’s even done. Cullen holds her gaze. “The Herald said she’ll be right behind us,” she adds.

Of course she did. “She has no idea what a terrible liar she is,” he says quietly, not sure if even Cassandra can hear it. 

“She might surprise us yet,” she tells him firmly, and he almost laughs, because isn’t this what he said, what feels like hours ago already? He has nothing to say now, ashes on his tongue and smoke filling his head. He keeps walking, they all are, all but aimlessly, until he and Cassandra deem it safe to pretend they’re safe.

There’s no pursuit, no one is coming. 

He posts guards anyway, sets up a basic watch schedule and perimeter and talks himself out taking up a shift himself. He’s not able to sleep anyway, and he’s probably useless for anything except the most menial of tasks now, and yet. There is work to do, maps to study, a course of action to plan. They need to pull through come morning, without her.

He should know how this works by now, failure and ashes. 

“Someone’s approaching, Commander,” one of the scouts reports, materialising at his shoulder, throwing a shadow over his maps from the flickering fire. He sounds out of breath, looks red in the face. Bites back words before speaking again, in a reverent whisper. “Looks like the Herald, ser. We’ve sent two to check and…”

He’s running already, Cassandra on his heels, overtaking the cautious scouts few feet away from where she’s falling into the snow. Cassandra barks commands over her shoulder, sends the guards away to wake the healers, _all of them, now_. Cullen lets the words be drowned out by the litany in his head, the constant stream of “she’s alive” echoing, buzzing under his skin.

She’s so cold when he picks her up, pale skin and lips all but blue, hair darkened with blood. Cassandra picks up her staff to make it easier for him to carry the Herald to the camp, cradling her as carefully as possible while almost at running speed. She stirs, tucking her face in his neck, seeking warmth.

“I wonder how many miracles she has left in her,” Cassandra mutters, watching the healers set to work as they’re both ushered out of the tent and out of the way.

“One more,” Cullen says firmly, giving in to the exhaustion finally and closing his eyes as he sits down on a crate someone set by one of the fires. “Always one more.”

He almost doesn’t recognise the heady feeling pushing itself to the surface, sharp and light. It feels like hope.

***

“It’s not the best hiding place, if everyone can see you if they just look up,” he tells her, leaning against the stone. 

The Inquisitor doesn’t turn, but the slight twitch of her lips lets Cullen know he’s not entirely unwelcome, at least. 

There’s quite a magnificent vista behind her, the mountains set on fire by the sunset, but she’s leaning over the side overlooking the courtyard, looking to where Dennet is overseeing his charges settling in. 

He lied to her just now; she’s too far up for anyone to see from all the way down, but he was still pretty sure he’d find her here. It’s the same pattern again, far enough not to be seen but close enough to know when she’s needed. 

“Do you need anything?” she asks, finally turning. The words could signify annoyance at the interruption, but her tone is too kind for that, face too open. Cullen shakes his head and moves to stand next to her, looking down at the courtyard. 

“This was going to be my question, actually. When are you setting out?”

They’re off to Crestwood soon, on Hawke’s lead. He’s just seen the man, Varric hiding him out on the battlements, presumably still wary of Cassandra’s ire. Cullen made a point of stopping by, of crossing his arms and tilting his head. “So, turns out you’re a mage, then?” he’s asked, Varric blinking at him while Hawke actually laughed, shaking his head.

“You’ve almost sold it, Knight-Captain.”

“It’s Commander, now,” he said and stopped himself from asking the questions pressing against his tongue. It wouldn’t change anything and in the weeks and months after the explosion of the Chantry and Meredith’s… after Meredith, he’s seen enough and learned enough to maybe begin to understand. 

“We’ll be off at first light,” the Inquisitor is saying and he can feel her gaze on him. “You know, you should come with us some time. Stretch your legs. Remember how it is to hold a sword,” she adds, openly teasing now.

He doesn’t know what to do with her, what to make of this. In the courtyard this morning, she spoke in a gentle tone, for once sounding uncertain and unsure, of being glad he’s gotten out of Haven unharmed. Him, specifically, like this was important to her, like he was…

“Earn myself some more significant injuries than papercuts, you mean? Sounds amazing,” he nods. “Leave Cassandra in charge of the duty rosters and training in the meantime.”

“Now that’s one way to inspire your men’s loyalty; let them see how it is under a stricter management,” she offers and Cullen frowns at her, unsure how to decipher her light tone.

“I don’t coddle my men, Inquisitor, if that’s…”

“Maker, Cullen, I know,” she says quickly, grimacing. She shifts and takes half a step towards him, raises her hand before it falls back down to her side. Her voice is tight, expression schooled down, when she speaks again. “Believe me, Commander, I did not try to imply anything by it. I greatly value your work and I know others do too. Including your men.”

She sounds apologetic, but also needlessly formal and he has a suspicion he’s talking to the Lady Trevelyan now, perfectly poised and polite, enough to give Josephine a run for her money. It’s disconcerting. 

“No, I apologise. I misunderstood,” he tells her and half turns, his neck itching. “I’m not always… I can’t always tell when you’re… teasing?” he offers, the question spilling out unbidden. 

Her smile is unexpected, warm and bright and sudden, like sunrays on a winter day. He can feel the flush rising in his cheeks. “Then I suppose I will need to make myself more clear, Commander,” she tells him, tone perfectly flat despite the smile and the brightness of her eyes. 

“This is what I meant,” he says, but he can’t help the smile forcing its way to his mouth. “Dispensing with formality could help,” he adds before he can stop himself.

He really did like the way she said his name, her lips making out the shape, the lilt in her tone. It’s… Maker, he’s got it bad, doesn’t he?

“I’ll make you a deal, Commander,” she says, leaning back and crossing her arms. “I’ll do that when you manage to say my name. My given name, none of that Trevelyan thing; you only use that when things are dire.”

She noticed that, didn’t she. He should have known better; it is a distancing technique not entirely uncommon between soldiers and Templars, and considering her time at the Ostwick Circle… he really should have known better. 

She still sounds like she’s smiling, however, and so he straightens up, all but clicking his heels before bowing to her. “Of course, my lady.”

She’s still laughing when he turns on his heel and heads for his office, and it’s the best thing he’s heard in weeks. Enough to last him for the next few.

***

“You’re fretting, Commander,” Josephine says, not unkindly, as he asks again if she or Leliana heard anything from Western Approach yet. “And the answer, sadly, is the same as it was half an hour ago.”

“Thank you, Ambassador,” he says flatly and busies himself with studying the reports from Crestwood, all of which he has already read and retained none of the important information. He knows Josephine is looking at him kindly, and at the moment it’s a little too much to take. 

It’s not just worry, though this is the longest they’ve gone without news from the Herald’s party. It _is_ to be expected, he knows; Western Approach is the farthest they’ve ventured out yet and the mission sensitive enough they might not have a chance or the time to send someone with news. And yet. 

And there is the headache he’s been developing since early morning, not helping the matter in the least, making him irritable and impatient. It started off as a mild throbbing he’s already all too used to, but he’s nearing the point where light and sounds are painful and he’s almost snapped at Josephine twice, not to mention he’s been unnecessarily short with Cassandra earlier.

He’ll need to apologise. He’ll also need to ask her to look for a new Commander for the Inquisition, if this continues. He thought he’d push through, bear it for long enough to either get better or get used to it, but it’s been too long and it’s beginning to reflect on his work, it’s beginning to affect others. 

Leliana pushes a marker over the table; such a small thing shouldn’t be making such a dreadful scratching noise. “Alright, is anything else on the agenda today?” she asks. “If not, I need to have a conversation with a few of my scouts,” she adds sweetly and Cullen is pretty sure he should know what she’s referring to, it’s something they’ve _just_ discussed, but…

“Would you like some tea, Commander?” Josephine asks as they make their way towards her desk and he shakes his head wordlessly.

“I need to finish with these reports,” he says and, thankfully, she doesn’t push. They all know he’s hanging by thin threads, only a matter of time until someone points it out. If he’s lucky, it’s going to be Cassandra, he’s braced himself for her decision already. 

If he’s really, really unlucky, and he has been shown to be so historically…

He sighs and starts at the beginning of the page again, reaches for the quill to make annotations, hoping they will still make sense next morning. He’s interrupted twice by the messengers coming in and leaving off reports, but none of them is the one he’s waiting for. Skyhold quietens around him, air smelling with a promise of new snowfall. 

The headache doesn’t lessen, quite the opposite, but he didn’t expect anything else. His fingers twitch and he looks at the drawer with the box twice, but forces himself to look away. 

“Honestly, do you _ever_ sleep?” 

He looks up sharply, blinking. He hasn’t heard her come in. Doesn’t think he was asleep, especially not given her words, but he really can’t remember the last few minutes. Maybe more, he’s been staring at the page unseeing for a long time probably.

“I try to avoid it as much as possible,” he says, meaning it as a joke, but he’s too tired, and something raw and too honest comes through in his voice, making her frown down at him. “When did you get back?”

“Just now,” she says, stepping around his desk to pick up his coat from the floor, fold it before placing it on the small space on the table that is free of papers. “We would have sent word, but it honestly made no sense since we would follow just after the messenger.”

She’s still dressed from the road, he can see it now. Not the soft and comfortable clothes she’s taken to wearing around Skyhold but rather the dragonling leather short coat, dark red so it is not easy to see the blood specks, unless she is this close.

“It’s not mine,” she says, following his gaze. He tries to glare at her unsuccessfully.

“You say things you think are comforting, and they are really not,” he tells her. “Am I… Do you need to call in the Council?”

“Not until morning, it’ll keep,” she says, sounding tired. She shakes her head at his questioning look. “Don’t get me wrong, it is pretty dire. We know where Corypheus’ demon army is going to come from, and it’s worse than expected, if you can believe that. Hawke and Stroud are investigating, we’ll have to wait for their report as we prepare. But this can wait till morning,” she says firmly, cutting off his protest. “Maybe you don’t think you’re tired, but I am.”

“Why are you here, then?” he asks, grimacing when it comes out too sharp. Thankfully, she just shrugs, hand idly skimming the pauldrons of the coat on his desk. 

“I spoke to Cassandra when we arrived, she said you were impatient for the news. I would have sent the messenger if I’d known; they’re probably get here only a few hours before us, but this was about Corypheus’ plans and I know…”

“Evelyn, it’s not about-” he stops, all but biting his tongue when she looks up, startled, and he catches himself. “I-”

“No, this is good,” she says, sounding absolutely delighted, and he’d smile if he wasn’t so mortified. He’s been doing so well. She doesn’t need any more expectations, any more people needing her like she’s the only good thing left in the world, she doesn’t need _him_ , with the nightmares and the emptiness and the cold. He opens his mouth to apologise and feels her fingers on his lips suddenly, not only silencing him but also stilling his heart from its frantic beat. Her grin melted down into a gentleness that feels almost painful. “How tired are you, exactly?” she says musingly and shakes her head. “Don’t answer that, Commander, I hate watching you try to lie.”

She doesn’t need to say this, he wouldn’t dare speak now for the world. She takes her hand away but he can still feel the touch, branding him deep, scorching. 

He really hasn’t been doing well, has he. 

“Get some rest, Cullen,” she says softly. “I will make this an order if I have to,” she adds, only half teasing. “It’s been a long day and it’s going to be longer tomorrow, I need you at your best.”

She’s not getting him at his best though, is she. He bows his head and breathes out, closing his eyes. He’s crumbling in front of her and he doesn’t think he even minds anymore. 

Maybe he does. Maybe he will in the morning again. His mind is too cloudy for this and she is the only bright thing that doesn’t hurt.

He thinks he imagines her touch at first, cold fingers on his brow, soothing. “I meant it, Commander,” she says, firm and soft at the same time and he nods.

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

She steps back, the loss palpable if expected. “Well, at least I know you _know_ my name,” she mutters.

***

She makes this sound, low in her throat, when he deepens the kiss. The first time he thought it was just because he startled her, but it happens again, right before her fingers tighten on his sleeve, right before she tries to pull him even closer, even though they already are impossibly so.

It requires careful study, he thinks after the third time. It’s quickly becoming his favourite sound in the world. 

There’s so many other things to discover, and to think he will have time to do his best. He hadn’t dared hope, this is more happiness than he deserves, but she’s smiling and her hand is on the back of his neck, gentle and warm. He’s just glad she’ll have him, for however long she needs him. 

“Commander?” there’s a hesitant knock on the door _from the inside_ of his office and Evelyn laughs, hiding her face in his chest. “Seeker Cassandra is looking for the Inquisitor and we… I… do you know where she is?” It’s Neyran’s voice, and he sounds like someone who just drew the short straw. He also sounds like someone who knows precisely where the Inquisitor is and really wishes he didn’t.

Still, he waits on the other side of the door, that’s something.

On the other hand this means that the news is all over the barracks by now.

“At least you know your men have decent survival instincts,” Evelyn tells him, biting her lip to keep from laughing as she pulls away. “I’m here, come in,” she says, laughter clear in her voice. Cullen gives her a look that he’s pretty certain comes out much less chastising than intended. 

“Your Worship,” Neyran says, eyes flitting between them nervously. Even if he weren’t told before coming here, he’d probably get a pretty good idea of what was just going on; Cullen is pretty sure his hair is a right mess and Evelyn’s fairs no better, loose strands around her flushed face.

It’s an exceptionally attractive look on her and…

“Seeker Cassandra is looking for you, Your Worship,” Neyran offers finally.

“Thank you. I will be with her shortly,” she says and waits for a beat as Neyran remains rooted to the spot. “You can let her know,” she adds and waits for the doors to shut before turning to Cullen. “I actually forgot we were supposed to meet,” she says sheepishly.

“That’s very unlike you, Inquisitor,” he tells her and she swats at his shoulder.

“I did not consider how distracting you’d be,” she says, starting off teasing but ending with a low groan when he pulls her close, arm around her waist. 

***

Their standing game appointment usually goes on according to the same script, but today Dorian seems distracted, making defeating him less of a challenge and therefore much less entertaining. 

“What is it?” Cullen says, taking another piece and frowning at it.

“Everything is perfect, why would you think otherwise?” Dorian gives him a wounded look, but more out of habit than anything else. “Alright, I have not seen our dear Inquisitor for the whole day and I’m pining.”

“Pining?” he asks, because this is what they do, even as his chest tightens with worry.

“Don’t worry, Commander, I’m not encroaching on your territory, I know you have all the pining well covered,” Dorian says, making a show of putting on a gracious tone before frowning. “She’s usually up and about, flitting from one of us to another, solving all our problems before breakfast. Not today, it seems. I thought you have stolen her away, perhaps for a secret tryst, but you don’t have a look of it and besides, here you are with me.”

“I’m…” He hasn’t seen her today either, but she’s taken to visiting him when the day is nearing to an end, when he either has no excuse of work or can be easily persuaded to abandon it. Some days he doesn’t need the persuasion at all, done before she arrives and only putting up the show of still paying any attention to the paperwork instead of watching the door. But Dorian is right, on days when she is in Skyhold she seems to be everywhere at once and if...

“Go, go,” Dorian waves his hand magnanimously. “Your game was really off today anyway.”

He’s pretty good at finding her, usually, and a little ashamed of how long it takes him this time. He’s in the last place he expected and on one hand, maybe the first he should have checked, but well. On the other, she is _never_ in her quarters, he is actually a little surprised she even knows where they are. 

He checks them perfunctorily and is ready to leave when she calls out from the balcony. Her eyes are closed when he joins her on the floor, propping himself up against the cold wall.

“You’ve got Dorian all worried,” he tells her and she snorts, a little puff of air visible in the cold. She reaches out for his hand without looking, fingernails scratching lightly against his palm. There’s new scar on the heel of her hand and he runs his thumb over it. 

“What were you all thinking?” she says, eyes still closed. Her voice is low, on the edge of a whisper. 

“I’ll need more to go on than this,” he tells her, trying for levity even though he knows it won’t work now. Her hand is shaking in his. 

“I’ve left a good man to die for us. Made a choice about the Wardens that will shape Thedas for years to come and I’m not sure it was the right one. Sentenced a man to death, one he probably deserved but also one he wanted me to give him, apparently hoping it’d let him continue his damned work,” words spill out of her now, quick and sharp. “That’s just this week. And this morning I had to judge a woman who thought she was doing the right thing and now can’t live with those choices.”

Right, Ser Ruth. Her “slow morning” with just one thing on the official agenda, apparently turned out to be the worst thing, the last straw. He curses himself for not seeing it sooner, for not realising she was crumbling down for days now. He knows this feeling too well, of drowning in regrets when the dam inevitably breaks from the smallest of cracks. 

He wants nothing more but to pull her close and comfort her, distract her, kiss away the unshed tears; but that’d be a temporary solution at best, putting pieces together with string and hope.

Instead, he laces their fingers together and shifts to look at her. “Who else?” he asks. “Those decisions you’ve had to make, this week and the last and everything before that. Who else would you have make them. Who would you trust enough and,” he tugs at her hand and she opens her eyes, looking at him finally, “who would you give the burden to?”

“That’s not fair,” she mutters and shakes her head. 

“Neither was asking you in the first place, and we’d do it again.”

She pulls her hand away, or tries, his fingers holding on until she relents. Her mouth twists around the words. “It was just… coincidence. All of it. Not the Maker, not Andraste, just dumb luck, bad or good, wrong place and time.” It’s what she said all along, too, when they called her the Herald or when they called her holy, protesting with a vehemence of someone who desperately wished to believe in something but couldn’t let herself. Adamant… vindicated and broke her at the same time, he thinks, and can’t even begin to comprehend. 

“And still, you were what we needed. Still need. I-” he starts and she shifts abruptly, suddenly half in his lap, mouth on his. Her lips are chapped and he’s caught unaware, breathless too quickly. The kiss is insistent, sharp, like she wants to stop his words or taste them before they spill. He sinks his fingers into her hair and groans when she bites his lip. They don’t break the kiss even as she’s trying to get a better angle, moving to straddle his legs. 

The floor is cold and uncomfortable, she knees him in the side in the whole process, and the kiss is messy, rough, leaving both of them out of breath when she finally pulls back and rests her forehead on his. There’s still a wild, restless look in her eyes, like she wants to bolt and run and never look back, but she shifts closer still, brushing her mouth over his nose. 

***

He makes his way down the stairs and towards the inn in record time, at least half a dozen people taking one look at him and getting right off his way. 

He’s not… he’s not angry, per se. There’s a heat pooling in his stomach and something cold sitting in his chest, but he’s not angry and he’s not surprised; the whole thing is just… he should have seen it coming, really. Doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, but here they are.

She came back from the Storm Coast with a grim expression and a short report, clipped words thrown onto the war table like a gauntlet, daring anyone to speak anything about the failure of their possible alliance with the qunari and the loss of Bull’s spy network.

Leliana scoffed and Josephine shrugged, dismissing the matter and moving on quickly, a brief flicker of relief over Evelyn’s face. Cullen stopped for long enough after they were done to ask if Iron Bull was alright and she offered something that would do for a smile, in lieu of an actual one. 

“Probably not, but I’m on it.”

On it, she said, and he should have seen this coming. The next day they were off to Crestwood, to “deal with some loose ends” and Cullen busied himself with the reports on Red Templars and Samson. They were nearing possible leads and he kept at it even at the news of her return; she’d find him when she needed him.

But that was before a petrified recruit showed up at his doorstep, stuttering out something about Bull, dragons, and qunari spirits, and someone needing to come by the inn and maybe collect the Inquisitor.

He hoped against hope that it might turn out to be some sort of a prank designed by Sera, but he’s not that lucky, and he arrives to find Evelyn half asleep on Bull’s shoulder. The qunari looks at him and presses a finger to his lips, booming “shh” in a voice that could wake the dead.

At least four soldiers try to hide behind the table when he looks at them and catches them laughing. 

“Come on, Chief,” Krem says, nodding at Cullen and pulling at one of Bull’s horns, drawing his attention. “Last call. Do you need any help?” he asks Cullen with a quick look at Evelyn and Cullen shakes his head but smiles gratefully. At least someone here remains sane. “She matched him drink for drink, it was actually impressive. Don’t know where she puts it all, with that frame. Still, cheered the Chief right up, especially the whole dragon thing.”

Right, the dragon thing. Krem sounds impressed and cheerful himself, so Cullen might have to rethink the whole sanity thing, but that’s a concern for another day. Now, he picks Evelyn up and glares at one of the soldiers behind the table until the man gets a hint and opens the door. 

She doesn’t stir until they’re in the great hall, muttering something about teeth that really makes no sense. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he tells her and she opens her eyes, blinking against what little light there is at this time, and mumbles something. “Might have to save that for later,” he advises.

“I said,” she enunciates forcefully, grimacing around the words, “I hope not.”

He reaches the door leading up to her quarters and pushes it open with his elbow, maneuvering them inside. “I’m not quite sure if that was sweet or morbid.”

She shrugs, as he deposits her on the bed and moves to get the blankets. Or tries to, her hand clasped on his sleeve. “Stay.”

His traitorous heart skips a beat even as he’s shaking his head. “I should-”

“Ugh,” she says after trying to roll her eyes at him. “Just a moment,” she insists, blinking sleepily, clearly fighting sleep. “Just until I…”

“Alright,” he mutters. “Just let me get the blankets,” he says and she watches him from under half closed eyelids until he sits down and cards his fingers through her hair soothingly, trying to avoid the tangles. Her breathing eases, the lines in her face smoothing when she falls asleep, mouth moving over some words. He half-recognises the shape and has to swallow the dryness in his throat, something bubbling up to the surface in his chest. 

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” he says to the silence of the room, leaning against the headboard and closing his eyes for a moment, hand still in her hair. 

***

It starts with a tremble in his hand, invisible at first but unmistakably there. He moves a piece over the table and _knows_ Leliana can tell, but she doesn’t say anything, never does. 

The room is too warm, stifling, uncomfortable. He wants to ask Evelyn to cut this short but can’t bring himself to, mostly because she would, immediately. 

His lips are chapped when he offers a goodbye and his feet don’t seem to move properly, boots echoing on the stone floors, too loud. Everything is on the edge, everything is sharp when he’s like this; not quite unbearable, not too much, but almost there. 

Enough so that he feels guilty thinking about shirking his duties; it’s not that bad, he can take this. 

He’s chosen this, after all, and all he needs is to push through this, not give in today and the next and the next. 

“Commander,” Evelyn says, stopping him half through the hall. “A moment of your time?”

Not now, he wants to beg, not today. She’s a balm in ways she probably can’t imagine, but she’s also too bright for him like this, overwhelming all his senses. 

“Of course,” he says and follows her obligingly, realising too late she’s not heading for the war room but towards her quarters. “You-”

“Here,” she says flatly, hand on his back when she opens the doors. He steps in and breathes out, turning to look at her. The room has been aired, but now the curtains are drawn; there’s fire in the fireplace. She raises her eyebrows. “I’m not above using emotional blackmail and telling you I need my Commander at his best,” she says and he almost laughs, her delivery is perfectly deadpan and dry, but she ruins in by stepping in close, hand to his cheek. 

It’s warm and it feels clammy against his skin, the gentle pressure almost too much. He leans into the touch, brushing his lips against her palm.

“It’s going to get worse,” he warns her quietly and she nods. 

“I’ve figured.”

***

He talks himself out of the whole idea three times before he asks. It was a stupid stray thought at first, when the report crossed his desk, when he started planning the trip. It took them close enough to Honnleath; they’d actually could change horses there, maybe stay for the night.

It grew into this idea, a daydream of a moment, and he’d imagine her face and think of what she’d say. He tends to spiral into this, overanalyze and overplan, map out what he’d say and where her responses could lead. 

He’d imagined their first kiss a thousand times before it happened, and it still surpass every expectation…

Evelyn surprises him when she agrees. She’s barely back from an excursion to Hinterlands, on some business with Varric that apparently resulted in more bad news about red lyrium, she deserves rest and peace, but he’s been mulling this idea over for days now and blurts it out, stuttering around the invitation. He’s been prepared for her to either decline or ask him to postpone, and her smile gives him pause.

Half a day on the road and he realises he hasn’t thought this through at all. Sure, the journey is planned to the detail and the business itself shouldn’t take long. It might even help that she’s there, people are usually more eager to deal with the Inquisition when visited by the Herald herself. The problem lies elsewhere. 

In all his meticulous planning of the mission, and in all his obsessing over what he’d say when he invites her to the lake, while he checked and rechecked if he has the coin with him, burning a hole in his pocket… he hadn’t considered the actual time it takes to _get there_ , and the fact that they’ll be accompanied by half a dozen soldiers. 

Lena keeps staring at Evelyn like she can’t believe this is happening, Bran and Hyatt avoid all possible conversation, Wilfred tries to pick up conversation three times before giving up, Olin stutters over every question he asks of Evelyn, flushing when he does, and Jayla keeps _smirking_ at Cullen. 

Evelyn bears it extremely well, answering the questions and offering kind words, until even Bran starts talking, three hours in. There’s a smile in the corner of her mouth whenever she looks at Cullen, and he’s not sure whether she’s laughing at him or not, but he supposes he has that coming. 

“We shouldn’t be far from the campsite now?” she says, even though by his count they’re still an hour away, maybe more, even considering the fact that they’ve made good speed so far. “Go on ahead, I need to discuss something with the Commander,” she adds. Jayla sends him a look and spurs her horse, everyone else following suit.

“Alright, this isn’t ideal-” Cullen mutters apologetically and then has to stop because she halts her horse and dismounts, patting its neck fondly. “Is something the matter?” he asks, concerned.

“Not at all. Come on,” she waves her hand and he joins her on the ground obligingly, sitting down on the stump next to her. His horse whinnies quietly and bumps his shoulder and Evelyn grins before tilting her head at him. “I should be asking you, besides. I don’t think you’ve stopped frowning for five seconds since we left Skyhold. Not fond of the company?”

“No, of course not. I-” he looks at her and stops. “I’m starting to think you enjoy making me look the fool,” he says dryly.

“I’d say we’re around even in this,” she says and then frowns when he looks at her in surprise. “Did you miss me making an idiot out of myself around you all these times? That’s good, Commander, we should leave it at that.”

“Apart from your conviction that you can actually win a chess game…” She swats at his shoulder and he catches her hand, holding on to it, making her glance down with a smile.

“I do enjoy the effect I can have on you,” she says quietly, almost fondly. “The fact that _I_ can make you smile or blush, it’s a heady feeling. And there’s also the fact that…” she shrugs the rest of the words away and raises her hand to his chin, running her thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Did I tell you it’s rather attractive?” she says, her tone teasing again, but there’s an earnest note to it, a small hitch of her breath.

“Is it?” he asks, leaning in closer, lips brushing hers when he speaks, but not closing the kiss just yet. She groans and moves her hand to the back of his neck, fingers lightly scratching, then tilts her head up into the kiss. 

“We should catch up with the others,” he says, pulling away and grinning when she glares at him even though she’s already laughing.

***

“Do you have a moment?” she asks, hesitating in the doorway and measuring the pile of papers on his desk. Well, piles, plural; they’ve been increasingly busy since the ball - solving one of the problems seems to have caused a dozen new to appear. 

At least none of those requires formal attire and small talk, thank the Maker.

“For you, always,” he says and can hear his voice soften without any conscious thought from him. 

“Good,” she says, stepping in. Her smile tells him this is not a business call and he doesn’t mind in the slightest; he could use a break. “I need to borrow you,” she says and heads for the other door, the one leading to the banks. “I’m a little surprised by the lack of argument, actually,” she tosses over her shoulder.

He is too, a little. Well, not surprised as such, it’s just… a year ago he wouldn’t let himself be distracted from his work by anything in the world. Since Kinloch Hold it was the thing to concentrate all his senses and push away they unwelcome thoughts. Too important not to give all his attention to, he told himself. For all that, he should have been better at it… He promised himself that his work for the Inquisition would be different, that he would give all, but that he also wouldn’t let himself be blind. 

Seems he’s forever bound to be proven wrong in _something_ , because a year ago he hadn’t known her.

“When you can’t beat them,” he tells her as they reach the top of the stairs and pass through one of the towers. It’s one of the more secluded parts of the fortress, with rare guard patrols and no one else really passing through, too out of the way for anyone. He’s not surprised she seems to know this. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Lady Trevelyan?”

She snorts and slides down to the ground, propping herself up against the wall. When he doesn’t join her immediately, she kicks his ankle and raises her eyebrow. “I’ve had enough of titles for the week, Commander,” she mutters and waits patiently until he joins her, shoulder jostling hers when he sits down, resting his hand on her bent knee. 

“I thought you’ve enjoyed the ball.”

“I’ve enjoyed our dance,” she smiles softly, then shrugs. “Everything else was shit.”

It startles a laugh out of him. “You could have fooled me. Actually, you did, along with everyone else. Josephine has been positively bouncing with the idea of possibilities; you’ve proven yourself skilled in navigating courtly intrigues, she is devising plans to use this as we speak.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she mutters and bangs her head lightly against the wall, closing her eyes. “I used to avoid balls when I was younger. When I was still expected to go to them, you know, before the Circle,” she says and he shifts to look at her as she speaks. “I was older than most when my magic was discovered, I’ve had plenty of time to be schooled in all the things the future Lady Trevelyan was supposed to know and be. I liked some of them, hated the others, balls included. The fashion at the time was atrocious and extremely uncomfortable, especially the shoes.”

“Don’t let Leliana catch you saying that.”

“See, this is some stellar advice,” she nods magnanimously. “This is why we need you, Commander.”

“Titles at the door,” he reminds her. “What _did_ you like, then?”

“Horse-riding. And history,” she says. “We’ve had a tutor from when I was six, an old soldier turned scholar. My mother would have been absolutely terrified if she’d ever heard the stories he used to tell us, but we loved them. My brothers took to trashing themselves with wooden swords in staging battles, I took to the books.”

“Not that fond of hitting your siblings with sticks?”

“I wasn’t allowed after the time I broke Corran’s nose,” she shrugs. “He still hasn’t stopped complaining, comes up every Satinalia. To be honest I think my mother was more concerned about the fact I proudly brought it up in conversation with every noble boy I met than she was about Corran’s nose. Improved his face, If you ask me,” she adds, smiling innocently when he chuckles. “It added some character. You’ll agree with me when you meet him.”

“When I meet him?” he asks before he can stop himself, knowing better even before the words ring out, before she gives him a look. He is an idiot, truly. “You know, all this time I’ve been worrying about you not being able to overlook the fact that I was a templar; should have been worrying about being a commoner as well,” he mutters, realising he’s not quite conveying the levity he’s aiming for, but she rolls her eyes and it’s almost as good as her laughing at him.

“Lucky for you, as a mage I can’t inherit the title or the land, so this won’t be an issue,” she says dryly. “And even if not for that… I don’t know if my father will like you, he’s pretty unpredictable, but you’ve managed to charm over the entire Orlesian court, my mother won’t stand a chance.”

“Didn’t we agree not to talk about the ball?” he asks, knowing he’s blushing already, feeling absurdly pleased at the same time. To think she’s clearly considered that, her parents and her family and their reactions to _him_ , and… that she thinks they might, that they will, have a future beyond this, together. 

“I’ve heard Leliana, you know, we’ve been getting letters. You could marry a countess, easily.”

“I don’t want to marry a countess, I want to-” he stops when her eyes meet his, her mouth open in surprise at his outburst. At his words, too, and he can tell she has a pretty good idea where he was going with this. It scares him how little it actually scares him. “I told Leliana to burn those letters,” he grumbles.

“I’m sure she did,” Evelyn lies and stretches out her legs, shifting a little closer to him in the process. “Alright, now you.”

“What we’re playing now?”

“I told you a great story about improving my brother’s looks, now you tell me one.”

“I was a well-behaved child and didn’t maim my siblings with sticks,” he tells her with all dignity he can muster and she nods slowly.

“Too busy practicing your chess game for days, I can see that,” she says mock-seriously. “I can’t believe you got this good before you were thirteen, however, you had to have kept practicing in the…” she stops herself abruptly before she says ‘circle’, he can tell. It’s one of the things they really don’t talk about, this strange shadow in both of their pasts that connects them and separates them at the same time. The things he told her about the Ferelden Circle, the only things he told her about the place that was his home for years, are the worst ones.

“I did,” he nods, crossing his legs at the ankles and looking up at the slowly moving clouds. “Few of us played, but there was Aileen, she was a year older than me, she was even more ruthless on the board than my sister was. Took me years before I begun hoping to beat her.”

“Ah,” she says knowingly and he knows he’s blushing, he must be, but he’s started this and he doesn’t mind her knowing. Wants her to, really.

“You know how the Circles are, no room for attachment or… but we were friends and she was the first girl…”

“What happened-” she stops and shakes her head. “Dumb question.”

“No. There was… she’s never taken her philter. She was the youngest daughter of a minor noble, never intended to inherit. But her brother was killed and her sister ran away with a Dalish woman…”

“See, this is a story.”

“Aileen was called back home. Got married, last I’ve heard, two kids so far.” He hasn’t thought of her in years, he thinks, even though there used to be a time when he thought of her constantly. That was before Solona, before Uldred, before Kirkwall. A few lifetimes ago, before Evelyn. It’s good to think of her now.

He feels her soft inhale, like she wants to say something, but nothing comes forth. She just takes his hand and looks up as well, at the clouds. Cullen runs his thumb across the space between her thumb and index finger, over her palm, over the small scar on the heel of her hand. He’s learned the touch of her hands now, knows them by heart, doesn’t need to look down to trace the scar or know the path of the blue veins on her wrist. 

“Cullen,” she says, hesitating, and he can feel the precipice between them, something important and huge in the way she looks at him, eyes wide. “I wanted…”

She stops abruptly when the doors on one side of the bank open and Cole walks out, not sparing them a glance. “Walls closing, crushing, space too small, just like that place,” he’s muttering and Evelyn jumps to her feet swiftly. “Breathe in and out, steady, still, silent. Just like that.”

“Cole, wait,” Evelyn calls out and steps after him, before she turns on her heel and leans down over Cullen, lips brushing his forehead, too brief. “We’ll talk later,” she promises and sets off, running towards the doors Cole is holding for her. “Who is it?” she’s asking already.

Cullen sits there until the kiss on his forehead fades.

***

“You’ll catch flies,” Dorian tells him, not unkindly, laughing over the crackle of the fire on his fingertips. “Staring like that,” he clarifies needlessly.

Cullen scoffs and sets off forward, but Dorian is not exactly wrong; he rarely is, to be perfectly honest. 

He deals with two Red Templars on the stairs and tries to keep up with the rest of the party. It’s not quite like he imagined this, but he probably should have. To be honest, he’s always tried not to imagine this, not to think of the specifics of Evelyn’s ventures. He gets and reads all the reports, he knows about the bandits and the rebel mages and the templars and the bears and that blasted dragon one time, but that’s paper and ink.

Her scars are always faded by the time she arrives in Skyhold, and her bright smile and kind words make you forget this is what she does with most of her time and it’s what she does well.

In the time that takes him to kill two templars, she starts a damn meteor storm that buries half a dozen and finishes it off by burning down a behemoth. He’s felt the heat of her fire spells the day they met, yes, but that could have been years ago, if you judged by the strides she’s made since then. She’s… magnificent, is one word. Terrifying, is another. A force of nature he can’t even hope to keep up with.

But then again, that much he had known.

“Maddox should be inside,” she mutters and doesn’t wait for answer, knowing well enough that everyone will follow. And so he does. 

***

Third time she spends the night in his quarters is the first he wakes up before her. First time she woke him up from a nightmare and told him she loved him, warmth seeping in into the hollow in his chest. Second time she snuck out before it was light to leave for the Hissing Wastes; she hadn’t really intended to spend the night but they lost the track of time somehow and, well.

The third time, he wakes up to her head pillowed on his arm. It’s gone numb and he doesn’t mind at all, to be honest. 

He dreads waking her up, but the alternative is watching her sleep, and while it is vaguely tempting, it doesn’t quite feel comfortable. He’s deliberating his options for long enough that her breathing changes almost imperceptibly and she sighs, puff of air against his skin. 

“I can hear you thinking.”

“I wasn’t-”

She opens her eyes a little to peer at him. “Did I tell you what a terrible liar you are?”

“Did I tell you I love you?” he shoots back and she smiles, then tries to school her expression down again, even though the corner of her mouth is twitching to rise up. “Anywhere to be today?”

“Josephine has something planned, I’m sure,” she waves her hand vaguely, pretending she is not intimately aware of every minute of her schedule. “Why? Did you have _ideas_ , Commander?”

“I’d like to,” he tells her honestly, kissing the corner of her mouth. Nothing he’d like more than spend the morning, the day, here with her. This is only the third night in over a month that they’d actually managed to spend together and they’re not doing that great with days either. “But there’s-” 

“There’s that,” she agrees, sitting up against the headboard, unconcerned with the way the covers slide down her shoulders and breasts. She gives him an indulgent smile when he can’t help himself and bows his head to kiss her neck. “After,” she says.

“After what?”

“Just, ‘after’. It’s an awfully big word, isn’t it? Terrifying,” she mutters, eyes fluttering when his mouth travels down a path between her breasts, when his fingers skim over her stomach. She arches lightly into his touch, sinking her fingers into his hair. “I stopped myself from saying it for so long now, for even thinking of the great big after. It’s easier if you just count the steps, concentrate on the task at hand.”

“I’m trying to,” he tells her mock-seriously, sliding his hand under the covers, teasing her with his fingers. Slowly, he pushes two inside her and she laughs and groans at the same time. 

“Terrible, Commander, absolutely terrible,” she says breathlessly. 

“Day at a time,” he mutters and she nods with a hitch in her breath. They haven’t talked about future at all, and he’s been glad of it. It scares him, the way that he started to _see_ a future and hope for it, with her. When the moments won’t be stolen, from their busy schedules and from the threat of doom. 

She reaches for his hand and presses at it slightly, pushes her hips up to meet his fingers, spreads her legs for better access. The covers slide off completely, forgotten, and Cullen moves down her body, kissing her stomach, the scar on her hip, the inside of her thigh. She makes a small, keening sound and throws her head back. 

“Please,” she says roughly and he obliges her, exchanging his fingers for his mouth and tongue. Her hand clenches on the sheets, the other tugging on his hair, on the edge of painful. “Cullen, I need-” whatever she wanted to say next is lost in a moan, but he has a pretty good idea. He puts his hands on her thighs, steadying her when she shivers and arches under his mouth. She’s wet and warm and pliant, small noises starting in her throat and fingernails digging into his scalp. 

She shivers and comes to the sound of someone knocking harshly on the door, and then she’s laughing through it and groaning, out of breath.

“At least they knock now,” Cullen mutters against her stomach, sending her into another fit of breathless laughter. The tip of his finger rubs against her, knowing very well how sensitive she is now, knowing she’ll shiver and grasp at his hand, unsure if she wants to push it away or press it close again. 

“So that’s the upside to the whole barracks gossiping,” she mutters, but doesn’t seem concerned at all. “Come here,” she orders and pulls him into a kiss, reaching down already. Cullen stills her hand when the knocking repeats, more insistent.

“Whatever it is, come back in five minutes,” he yells down.

“That’s not conspicuous at all,” she mutters. “Also, you expect to be done in five minutes?”

He rests his forehead against her shoulder and breathes out slowly. “After.”

“In the great big after?”

“The very same. We’re going to take a day. Take this… take this slow.”

“You’re not thinking big enough. A week at least, Commander,” she mutters. “That’s a good thought,” she agrees and allows him to pull away and move to get dressed. She has a full day before her, probably even worse than his, but he allows himself to think that it’s not going to be like this forever. That their days are not limited and they’re not racing to do as much as possible with them before…

Today he’s looking forward to the after.

***

“Good, you’re here, come on,” Evelyn sashays into his office and waits impatiently until he obediently pushes away the papers. She leads him through the other door and into the ramparts, leaning over the stone overlooking the courtyard. 

“I assume this is a dire emergency,” he tells her dryly, matching her position next to her. 

“Shh, yes it is,” she mutters, watching out for something intently. He tries to follow her gaze, but there’s nothing significant in sight. It’s late enough and cold enough that most everyone had already headed inside, with only some of the guards moving around. 

He gives up on that and watches her instead, her mouth quirking up knowingly. Her chin is scratched, two angry red lines she hadn’t bothered to have healed, and a light bruise on her brow. Those are all the injuries she earned in Arbor Wilds and against reason, this worries him somehow; how long can she be this lucky? How long can he?

There’s a sudden loud crash of what sounds like glass from across the courtyard, from the balcony where… is it from Vivienne’s quarters? He glances at Evelyn and slowly takes his hand off the sword, where it went automatically at the sound. She raises her hand, like she’s waiting for something. Cullen closes his mouth and then watches as a blaze of fire coming from the balcony illuminates the courtyard before fading. “Maker’s breath, what was that?”

Evelyn shrugs. “No idea.”

“You brought me here to see this.”

“Well, I knew _something_ was going to happen. I saw Sera sneaking out from Vivienne’s place earlier and you know she has some ideas on how to keep everyone's spirits up…”

“I know it took me entirely too long to figure out what she did to my desk,” he says and then frowns at her with some suspicion when her eyes widen innocently.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You helped her with my desk, didn’t you.” He’s been wondering about that, to be honest. The whole thing was too subtle for somebody who put a bucket over Josephine’s doors and added red dye to the laundry and he is well acquainted with Evelyn’s occasional mischievous streak. 

“I have only the fondest regard for your desk,” she says with a smile and turns around, leaning back on her elbows and looking up at him, her gaze assessing. “Long day, wasn’t it?” she asks, reaching out to touch the side of his face, fingers cold and soothing. He leans into her palm.

“Aren’t they all?” he mutters, lips moving against her skin. Neither of them needs to point out that they’re getting longer, harder. He hasn’t really slept in the past three… no, four days and he’s pretty sure she hasn’t either. They’re nearing the end, come what may. 

Today, however. He’s spent most of it staring in the face of a man he could have become, if it wasn’t for Cassandra, for the Inquisition, for purpose and faith. He can rage and judge and tell himself he’d never do what Samson had done, but there’s a cold sliver of doubt lodged in his heart.

He knows he doesn’t have to explain this to Evelyn, she seems to know already, and the problem with this is: can she guess at his doubts or does she share them. Does she know him capable of what Samson had done? 

She runs her thumb over his lips and lets it rest in the corner of his mouth. Her eyes are bright and serious and so kind when she looks at him, it’s hard to take sometimes and yet he could never bring himself to look away. 

“I’m going to tell Sera you’re in need of some cheering up,” she threatens softly and it startles him enough that he laughs. 

“Don’t you dare. I dread to think what she’ll come up with next.”

“Hopefully something to do with that blasted halla statue on your shelf,” she mutters darkly. “Anyway, if you’d like to stop me, you’ll have to come up with some distraction, Commander.”

Tomorrow, they will have to pool the information and go over all the details; they need to push their advantage as soon as possible. Tonight though, he can do with some distraction.

***

He wakes up to Evelyn’s hair tickling his nose and sun shining through the open windows. 

“I had the strangest dream,” she mutters into his chest, eyes still closed.

“Bad or good?” he asks, looking down at her. Her legs are tangled in the covers she stole during the night; she does that pretty much every time, it’s become familiar and comforting. What is new is that they’re in her quarters for once, in her bed. He’s pretty sure any plausible deniability has been shot to hell when they walked into them straight from the great hall. He doesn’t mind in the slightest, even if he’ll have to put up with a smirking Dorian for a day or two. 

She scrunches her nose and sits up. Her hair is a mess, one he’s quite responsible for. There’s a reddish mark on her neck he is most definitely responsible for; he has one or two matching ones, he knows. She looks tired and sleepy and wide awake. And happy. “I’m not sure yet. We should find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're of mind, come find me on tumblr: realitycheckbounced. Lots of crying over video games and other things.


End file.
